Le Cirque de Tourbillons
by Miss Faber
Summary: In a world where Amon succeeded, where bending withered away into extinction, where, generations later, very few are left who can still master the ancient art... a circus appears.
1. Prelude

**Le Cirque de Tourbillons**

_Disclaimer: Avatar the Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra do not belong to me, and I make no profit from the telling of this tale._

_A/N_: Pffft another novel-length Zutara what am I even doing.

Nonetheless, this one is an absolute favorite, a joy to write; and hopefully a joy to read. It's inspired by one of my favorite books, _Night Circus_.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Prologue**

The circus arrives without warning.

There are no posters, no advertisements, no announcements of any kind. The circus is simply there, whereas yesterday it was not.

It appears in the day; though nobody is sure when, exactly, and if you ask anyone they'll give thoughtful estimates or vague assurances that never exactly match up. By noon, a crowd has gathered before it, only to find silver words inscribed on a black sign:

_Opens at nightfall, closes at dawn. _

Whispers ripple through the town; what kind of circus only opens at night? Excited squeals mingle with scandalous rumors, yet despite it all a sizeable crowd formed of people from nearly all ages has gathered outside the gates by sunset.

You are among them, of course; eyes peering curiously at the wonder before you.

The ground the circus covers is split into winding roads that weave in complex circles around the tents; an eternal maze that niether ends nor begins. Leaves flutter at the ground, tickle your feet, though you hardly pay them any notice. The tents are all a striped mass of black and white; and as you stand from afar, you wonder if you can really see them shimmer at the touch of the wind, or if your eyes are playing tricks on you. No other colors can be seen; no crimsons or emeralds, no pastels. The entire phenomena is encased in metal fence, and that alone is a marvel; complex metal circles sprout from the ground, then swirl in and around each other until they reach the top of your head. What little you can see of the ground from the outside is either black or white; painted or powdered, you think, or perhaps treated with some other circus trick.

You stand at the perimiter of the huge circle, a single unit of a crowd quivering on the edge of anticipation, and take as many tantalizing glimpses as your eyes will allow you.

There is the tip of something white and curiously moving, far away; it is obscured from your view by a particuarily large tent. You curse your luck and consider finding another vantage point, but a quick glance at the significant crowd keeps your feet roooted to the ground.

For the first time- though it was there the entire time, surely- you glimpse the ticket booth. It is near enough to touch, if one perhaps used the lower rings of the gate as a foothold and reaches out. Boards obscure the window, and you wonder fleetingly why they haven't been dismantled, because the sun is already beginning to set.

You ache to enter, to see _more_, but you can't. Not just yet.

The people surrounding you are growing restless; feet shuffle, children tug at the sleeves of parents. You simply pull your scarf up to your face, overcome with a trembling excitement.

Finally, the rays of the sun evaporate; the white and black of the circus is bathed in oranges and lingering violets. After a matter of seconds that seem like much longer, the world is dark.

And then, it is not.

Nobody can pinpoint where it starts, exactly; but suddenly, tiny lights pop up on the tents, not only on the edges but on the entirety of it, as though fireflies were embedded into the very fabric. The crowd quiets as they watch this impressive, somehow pure, display. You raise your nose to the air; there is suddenly a hint of something sweet, perhaps cinnamon, a subtle warmth embedded in the cold.

When the tents are all properly lit, glowing against the black canvas of the night sky, the sign appears.

You suppose its always been standing there, but you marvel at how you hadn't noticed it till now; though, to be fair, it hadn't yet been lit. A shower of sparks start at the base; those closest to the gates step back. There is a small popping sound, then a louder one, then with a deafening _whoosh_ the sign blazes to life.

The letters- curiously, magically, impossibly made of white fire- read _Le Cirque de Tourbillons_.

The question of a child nearby disturbs the quiet. "What does it say, papa?"

"The Circus of... Swirls," comes the hushed, uncertain answer.

As though cued, the iron gates tremble and open outwards. The crowd holds its breath, disbelieving.

Now the circus is open. Now you may enter.


	2. Unorthodox Wager

**Le Cirque de Tourbillons**

**Chapter 1: ****Unorthodox Wager**

_Year 320 ASC_

_A/N: _Now that the prologue is through, here is some background information as to what's going on.

First, timing. This story takes place one hundred and fifty years after Avatar Korra's time. For the sake of convenience, because there will be time shifts in this story, I'm dictating that the year in which this chapter takes place is year 320 ASC (After Sozin's Comet, the first one). Naturally, there have been some advances in technology and such, as we see in the shift between the original Avatar universe and the one in the Legend of Korra.

As stated in the summary, Amon has won. Benders have been extinguished. Only a few rebels survived, and the characters of this story are their descendants.

One more point: Katara, Zuko, and any other characters that appear in this story did not exist the first time around. That is instrumental to my own plot, and to Amon's victory.

Lastly, I state again that this story is inspired by _Night Circus_, but I will not be using Morgenstern's words and claiming they are my own. Many of the events or characters will be similar, yes, but many will also be wildly different.

Enjoy, and review!

* * *

The show is, as usual, breathtaking.

The man on the stage holds the attention of the entire theater; his hands move with the power of vipers, sinuous and fatal. The fire he manipulates moves like a live thing, a barely tamed beast controlled by the man's pale hands.

His eyes are on one man in the audience, a man decked almost completely in white; a man who does not lift his hands to clap even once.

When the show is over, the man in the audience waits for the theatre to clear; he does not care much for crowds. When the doorway is deemed suitably empty, he rises from the velvet-lined chair and makes his way backstage.

A guard attempts to stop him; but the man says a few choice words, and a minute later, the guard lets down the arm that had been barring the man from entering. He later departs work early, complaining from a splitting headache, and although he stays up for half of the night he can't explain why he feels as though he's forgetting something important.

The man in white proceeds on his short journey, navigating seamlessly through the chaos of backstage after a show. Despite the bustling actors, the large crates and cages, nobody touches him once. He moves through them with the viscosity of water, and when he finally arrives at the door he desires, his white cloak is pristine.

He raps at the door once with his gloved knuckles; then he pushes the door open, not waiting for an invitation.

The room is surprisingly clean and well kept for a man of the performer's temperament. A few articles of clothing are strewn on the backs of chairs, but it is the only disorder to be found. Everything is either black, gold, or crimson. A table leans on one wall, covered in an impressive collection of intoxicants. In one small corner, an elaborate dressing screen stands; and behind it, an unmistakeable shadow.

"Ah," the performer says. "You're here. I've been waiting all week."

"Your letters were quite persistent," the man in white replies, by way of greeting.

"Still, I didn't expect you to accept my invitation. Take a seat somewhere."

"I didn't expect you to be the type to perform in a theatre," the man retorts, staying rooted to his spot. He prefers to stand.

"Then you haven't been keeping up with the news," the performer replies. "Yet, I doubt that of you."

The man in white's face is expressionless. "You are correct. Though I hardly expected you to work in such a grand theatre."

"You mean you did not expect them to hire me," the performer replies, without skipping a beat. His tone, despite his words, is not hurt. "But they did. The Palace City needs its entertainment, as do all the great cities. I heard there's going to be some sort of new contraption in Omashu, a building where _fish_ are on display. Agni help me."

The man is amused, though he doesn't let that emotion transfer to his features. "Still. A fire breather belongs in a circus."

There is a pause. "You're right."

The performer then steps forth from behind the dressing screen; he has shed his theatrical costume, slipping into trousers and a cuffed shirt of solid black. His long, raven hair is tied at the nape of his neck. Without the stage makeup and the glaring lights, he appears older, though not by much.

The performer nods in the direction of his acquaintance; he knows he does not shake hands. "Besides, I am not a mere fire breather."

The man shakes his head, slightly. "One day, you will be caught out."

The performer shrugs, nonplussed. "I doubt it. They all believe that what I do up there is trickery."

"Not everyone," the man insists, cooly. "There are those who believe in our history, who see it as fact and not legend."

"In a world of magicians and telephones, such people drown."

The man in white silently puts the argument to rest. "Why have you called me?"

"Ah, yes." The performer presses his palms together. "I have a proposition for you. A game."

The man raises an eyebrow.

"It's been a while since we've played," the performer continues.

"For good reason," the man replies. "The last challenge was... well, you remember."

The performer waves his hand dismissively. "This challenge will be different."

"How so?"

"It shall be purely benders," the performer proposes. "One from you and one from me. No magicians, no illusionists, no damned chemists. And I have an interesting venue in mind."

Despite himself, the man is intrigued. "I assume this means you have a player?"

Something glints in the performer's amber eyes. "Indeed, I do." He turns his head and calls loudly, "Come here, child."

A small girl with raven hair walks through an attached doorway; her stride is purposeful as she makes her way to the performer. The boy that follows her is more timid, though his golden eyes are alight with uncontrollable curiosity. Both have the performer's angular features, raven hair, pale skin, and amber eyes.

The performer places a hand on the girl's shoulder, opens his mouth to speak; then notices the boy, and scowls. "I didn't call for you, Zuko. This is-"

The man in white holds up a hand, effectively interrupting him. "The boy stays."

For a moment, the performer can only sputter soundlessly; then he shakes his head and proceeds. "This is my daughter, Azula."

His hand visibly tightens on her shoulder. "Azula, show this man what you can do."

Surprisingly, a wolfen smirk breaks out on the girl's delicate features. "Stand back."

She leaps fiercely, into a long forgotten stance; her small fists burst forth with blue fire.

"Another bender," the man comments. "Incredible."

The performer- Ozai- opens his mouth to comment, but this time it is Azula who interrupts. "What about me? Don't you have any comments on my _bending_?"

"No." The man's tone is nothing if not polite, as the Azula's mouth falls open in disbelief. He turns his attention to Ozai. "I'll accept your proposition, on one condition."

"What's that?"

The man in white jerks his head in Zuko's direction. "I want the boy to be the player."

Ozai's jaw tightens, while Azula lets forth with some argument neither man pays attention to. "No. Absolutely not."

"Why?" The man seems genuinely puzzled. "He is a bender, is he not?"

Ozai's silence is his answer.

"It can't be because you care for him," the man continues. "You obviously do not."

"I chose Azula to be my player," Ozai fumes. "I'm not in a place to choose your player, and _you're_ not in a place to choose _mine_. Those are the rules."

"But there are negotiations, compromises." The man lifts his chin. "We dictate the rules. It was always that way."

Ozai's barely contained rage is visible in his eyes, in the vein that throbs in his thick neck. "You want Zuko to be your player because he's weaker!"

The man holds up his hands, palms forward. "I have no reason to suspect he is weaker. I choose him because I do not want your daughter, and he appears to be the only candidate- unless you wish to go on a hunt."

An inhuman noise of protest escapes Azula's mouth, but her father shushes her. The man in white sees his opening.

"There will be other challenges," he continues. His eyes rove over the scowling girl, once, as though they saw something the rest of them could not see. "Perhaps even for your daughter. But not this one. I choose your son."

Ozai lets an unsatisfied huff escape his nostrils. "Fine. You're right- we _do_ dictate the rules." His eyes glint. "And since you chose my competitor, I choose that yours be a waterbender."

The man considers; waterbenders are rare, rarer than earthbenders or firebenders. He's yet to meet one. But he has an inkling as to how he can find one.

He nods, signalling his consent.

"And," Ozai continues. "I shall meet with him or her, when your hunt is concluded, to give my approval." He pauses. "And to bind her."

The man nods again. "You said you had a suggestion for the venue?"

"Yes, yes. I presume you're aware of mutual friend, Manik's, latest endeavor?"

The man nods.

"It is nothing but whispers now," Ozai says. "It will be years and years before it's ready. By then, the players will be prepared."

The man inclines his head, in thought. "I am not fond of public venues."

"It only adds to the challenge. I want this to be the best game yet."

The man in white concedes. "And of the rules?"

"Only the basic ones."

"Very well." Though the words are unremarkable, the way the man says this is final. "It's time for the binding."

Zuko sucks in a breath as the man reaches into the folds of his cloak; he can barely follow the transaction between the two men, feeling as though there was something larger than their words in the way they spoke. _Whatever he's pulling out, the bond, it'll hurt, I know it will_-

But his frantic thought process ceases when the man reveals a simple ring.

He approaches Zuko; holds his gloved hand out, palm up. Zuko tentatively puts his hand over his, watches with trepidation as the man slips the ring onto his middle finger.

"Keep that there," he instructs. Zuko quickly nods his understanding.

The man in white turns to Ozai, inclines his head. "I believe that's all."

Ozai nods, though a bit begrudgingly. "It is."

"I'll be in touch."

The man slips out of the room without another word. Ozai and Azula follow soon after, the father casting meaningless words that are meant to be reassuring at his daughter.

Nobody notices Zuko, standing in the same spot he'd occupied since he'd first entered the room, trembling from head to foot.

* * *

Everything is white; the ice, the snow, the very _sky_ as a bright sun beats down on those below. The buildings are white, covered in the element. The dazzling white landscape is blinding.

Yet the man in white looks out of place.

Perhaps it is the pallor in his cheeks, though by all logic it should have helped him blend in. The edges of his cloak are, paradoxically, too sharp, his grip on his polished cane too tight.

He steps forward, making his way past the grand gates; he navigates the snowy streets, ignoring the stares he draws. Finally, when he reaches the particularily large building of his interest, he enters and makes his request.

The matron, a stout pale woman, wants to be delighted; but she is also confused. For one thing, she's already forgotten the man's name after he's introduced himself, and she is too embarrassed to ask him for a repetition. For another, he is too bussinesslike, too _detached_ for a man with his request, though she cannot say he is nonchalant. His grey eyes are too alert for that.

Despite her befuddlement, she listens carefully to the man's unusual criteria, and when he is done, she brings him two boys and one girl.

The three children sit in an antechamber as the man in white meets with them- seperately, of course- in an attached room. The first boy is brought in for a few meager minutes. When he passes by his comrades, they search his face for any sign of what to expect; but his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and he gives a slight shake of his head.

The second boy enters and exits in a similiar manner, his features twisted into a frown as he passes by the girl. Barred from her sight, the man in white replenishes a single glass of water that sits on the corner of the wooden desk.

Finally, she is brought in. She shuffles past the door; meekly, at first, but with increased purpose as she makes her way to the chair in the center of the chamber. When she is seated, her eyes rove over the entire room, drinking in every detail as though she's never been in it before; the man in white assumes, correctly, that she hasn't. Finally, her eyes fall on him; wide, curious pools of the truest blue.

He studies her as well. She is small in stature; he estimates her age to be about six or seven. Her brown hair is cropped short, the tendrils curling beneath her chin. Her shirt is a bit too big, though it bares her arms; her pants are a tad too short. Both are in a washed out color that could have been blue or gray. Though her overall appearance is shabby, it is clean, and the man nods in absentminded satisfaction.

The man is surprised when she speaks first. "What am I here for?"

Beneath the desk, his hands fold themselves over his lap. "I am on a search."

"For what?"

"A student." The girl watches his eyes carefully. They betray nothing. "Do you like to learn?"

"I suppose," she answers. "Though they treat the boys and the girls differently here."

"How so?"

"The boys are more privaledged," she answers, and there is a flint of something angry in her eyes. "Even in learning."

The man nods, conveying his understanding. "I must say, I am surprised. I thought all nations would have rid themselves of such antiquated customs by this time."

The girl's shoulders bop up and down in a small shrug. "The world hasn't been kind to the Southern Water Tribe."

"So you blame this on the rest of the world?"

She shrugs again, though this time, her reaction is less certain. "Yes. I suppose I do."

"I must say, though," the man begins. "There is reason in that ideology. Boys become men who give back to their societies."

Her answer comes swiftly. "If girls were given the same education and oppurtunities as boys, they would become women who could also give back."

The man nods again. "How old are you?"

"Eight."

"You look younger."

Her eyes narrow. "I'm eight years old. You can ask the Mother. It's not a lie."

"I didn't say it was."

The man rises from his chair, straightening out the creases in his cloak. The girl shrinks back in her chair, slightly intimidated by his full height.

"One more thing."

Without warning, his hand darts out to grasp the cup; he glides past the desk and spills the water over the girl's head. She gasps in surprise and confusion, but her hands involuntarily flex; and the water comes to a sharp halt in its descent, a small ball hovering in midair.

For a moment, the only sound is the girl's harsh breathing. A slow, satisfied smile spreads over the man's face. "Ah."

The girl bends the water back into the glass. "How..." She swallows; her throat feels impossibly dry. "How did you know? I haven't told anyone."

"For good reason," the man says. "But everything will change now."

"_How did you know_?"

The man raises an eyebrow, no longer amused by her insistence. "I have my sources."

"Are you an officer?" In her wide eyes, he watches fear take root and blossom. "Is that why you're here? To... to _end_ me because of what I can do?"

"No." Though she is still horribly frightened, his voice rings with truth. "I'm here to help your bending grow."

_Bending_. She'd never heard the word spoken aloud before; it was almost a curse, syllables that can't be uttered. That comforted her.

"Very well," the man spoke, before she gave a clear answer. "You will be coming to live with me. I have already made all the arrangements with the matron."

She worries her lower lip. "Do I have a choice?"

"Do you want to stay here?"

She considers this for a moment; concedes. "No."

"Then it is decided."

The girl watches him rise from the desk and move to the door with unbearably curious eyes. "Don't you want to know my name?" she asks.

"Not particularily," he answers, though he somehow manages to make it sound hardly offensive. "Names are not of nearly as much importance as people like to think they are." He pauses in his steps, and there is the slightest inclination of his head towards her. "But I presume you shall tell me your name anyway."

If the situation wasn't so bizarre, the girl would have smiled. "It's Rae."

"Is that the name you were born with?"

The girl's answer is soft. "It's the name they gave me here."

The man nods, as though in agreement; as though there was something he was validating in his head, though for the life of her she couldn't imagine what. "Very well, Katara."

Katara inclines her head. "Should I even ask how you knew that?"

"If you do, you won't get the answer you're seeking."

At that point, the man left the room; and Katara, intrigued more than frightened, followed.

* * *

When Zuko awakes the next morning, the ring is gone; but there is raw scar on his middle finger, where it burned into his skin.


	3. Cuts and Clocks

**Le Cirque de Tourbillons**

**Chapter 2: Cuts and Clocks**

_Year 320 ASC_

Ozai comes to visit them, just as promised.

Katara's eyes are helplessly curious as the man with the pointy beard enters their newly acquired, tidy flat. The man in white- even after a week of knowing him, he hasn't conceded to her his name- ushers Katara into the kitchen while the two men discuss something that does not reach her ears. Though he speaks only to the man in white, those golden eyes flicker frequently back to her; Katara, watching them from behind the ajar door, is tempted to shrink back from his gaze. She doesn't.

Eventually, the man in white calls to her. Katara approaches them tentatively, unsure of what to expect; after all, the past week has been nothing but hasty transport and unanswered questions. As she nears the newcomer, Katara realizes almost absentmindedly that he is beautiful; though she doesn't know how she can recognize beauty, due to the lack of beautiful things in her life.

Katara watches as the man with the ebony hair reaches into the folds of his robe. She holds her breath; when he draws it out, the edges of a crimson cloth spill out from his pale fist.

"Your first lesson," the man in white finally speaks. "Binding."

She ponders those nearly meaningless words as the newcomer unravels the rich cloth. In the center of the crimson canvas is a ring. The man extends his other hand, palm up; and Katara, understanding, lays her smaller hand over his.

The ring is swiftly pushed onto her middle finger. Katara opens her mouth to say that, although it is quite pretty, it is far too big; but the words freeze in her throat as the ring shrinks until it fits snugly to her skin.

The men exchange a nonverbal exchange before nodding, and Ozai turns swiftly on his heel.

Katara watches him head for the door. "Wait!"

He pauses midstep, then turns; surprise evident in his eyes, in the lines of his body.

"Who are you?" she asks.

Katara thinks she can see his golden eyes soften, imperceptibly. "You'll know before the end," he answers.

Though she's hardly satisfied with this answer, she's grown used to the cryptic attitude. Her eyes fall on her ring; though she knows, somehow, that the simple band isn't anything too elaborate or expensive, it's the nicest thing she's ever owned. And, although she hasn't learned much of anything useful in the orphanage, she knows enough of etiquette to smile at him and say, "Thank you for this."

Ozai doesn't reply; though his face twists, as though he's holding back a laugh. He nods in the general direction of the man in white, then exits with a theatrical flourish.

Katara turns her questioning eyes to the man in white, but he is staring intently at the wall opposite him; consumed in his own thoughts. He mumbles something underneath his breath, then walks into an adjoining room, leaving the small girl to ponder the words he didn't think she'd heard.

_It's a funny world I live in, in which one recieves thanks for a curse._

* * *

Zuko had grown up in theatres and circuses; in the land of performers.

While he in't paraded around by his father as an adorable, witty, talented piece of arm candy- the way Azula is- he still finds ways to enjoy his nomadic life. Ba Sing Se, Omashu, Republic City; every place is new and fresh and different, regardless of how many times he's been there. His father doesn't care too much for his whereabouts, so Zuko is free to explore; and he finds that as long as he avoids dark alleys and doesn't stay out too deep into the night, every city is beautiful and exciting. He discovers new restaurants and old marketplaces. He tastes new foods. Sometimes, he even makes a new friend; just for the night.

All of that changes with the binding.

They stay in the Fire Nation Palace City a week after the mytserious man in white leaves Ozai's dressing room. During that week, Zuko hardly hears from his father, save for one set of instructions delivered in a huff on that same fateful night: _You're not to leave the theatre, at all, or else_.

Zuko heeds this warning, though he struggles to understand why his father suddenly wants to dictate his whereabouts. A part of him, though, finally feels like a son; and he revels in that.

That safe, warm, completely nonsensical feeling doesn't last, as most fleeting things tend to do.

Training begins in Ba Sing Se, and firebending is transformed from a rare gift that must be hidden to a mode of offense that must be honed and perfected. The boughts of training are irregular; in between shows and at the odd long hours of the night, hidden behind dressing screens and in the bowels of closets. The smell of burning curtains becomes quickly familiar.

Zuko tries to ask questions, but he isn't told much. Ozai is clear on the fact that their training sessions don't extend to meaningful conversation, or any conversation at all; especially anything regarding the mysterious challenge. At first, Zuko continues to hold hope in his childish heart that true bonding will eventually spring from the time spent together. But as the months pass, he lets it go, and in some matured part of his heart he realizes that this is the true tragedy.

All he understands is that there will be some sort of game in the faraway future, with someone he hasn't met yet.

"Like Pai Sho?" he asks once.

"No," his father replies. "Not like Pai Sho."

* * *

The tears that come with Katara's awakening are brutal; her middle finger is red and throbbing, the band at the base of it swollen. She leaps out of bed, frantic and frightened, rushes to the man who's name is still unknown to her.

"Help," she says, mutely holding out her hand to him.

The man in white looks up from his book and eyes her hand, almost sadly. "You're beyond my help now."

* * *

What used to be unique is now one and the same.

Zuko used to enjoy every city they visited; they were all different. He had favorite tea shops in each, streets he loved to revisit. But when training started, freedom ended, and soon he was in a state of perpetual lockdown.

Cities that he used to cherish begin to blend together, hidden behind the curtain of relentless training and identical dressing rooms. He only becomes dimly aware that they are moving onto another city when he has to pack up his things.

All that matters is the training; to be stronger, tougher. More forceful. More fierce. More powerful. More precise. More length, more width, more juice, more flame, more control.

Better than Azula.

"You'll disappoint me," Ozai says, at the beginning of nearly every one of their meetings; and every single time, Zuko rekindles his desire to prove him wrong.

* * *

The man in white takes Katara to Republic City, though she hardly has time to absorb its splendor during the short trip from the docks to their flat; and once she arrives there, she is hardly permitted to leave.

During the days, months, _years_ that follow, Katara sees no one. Punctual meals are carried to her room by none other than her caretaker three times a day, though she never actually sees him cook. She is on strict orders never to leave the flat, and ironically enough, it is not fear but curiosity that causes her to obey. It is curiosity towards her caretaker, the nameless man in an always spotless white cloak, and curiosity towards the mark on her finger and the things it implied.

She knows only that there is a _challenge_, as the man in white calls it; that soon enough, all her training would help her win in some match she'd be faced with someday.

But for now, she trains; with the man in white, and with Master Pakku.

Katara's first impression of Master Pakku was that he looked like a sour old man; even worse than the Mother at the orphanage. He sighed and spoke his first words to her: "I expected a boy."

Katara's frown rivaled his, her hands balled into angry fists at her hips. He sighed again. "Let's begin."

Then he started to bend, and none of that mattered anymore.

Katara had never seen anyone bend, let alone a master who was performing for her alone- no, _teaching_ her. His movements were fluid and graceful and beautiful, his arms and legs and torso transferring their breath into the body of water they moved. What struck her, though, was not the beauty or complexity of his bending; but how unabashed, how _unrestrained_ it was. Throughout her short life, she always hid her abilities, always considered it something to be ashamed of. But now this man was defying her every belief, defying the very _world_ with his grace and fluidity.

She supposed she'd fallen in love, then, and never fully recovered; and that was, perhaps, the biggest factor to her downfall.

* * *

"_Daddy's going to kill you_," Azula sings, her voice full of mirth and petty victory as she stands in Zuko's darkened doorway.

"Really?" Zuko groggily sits up in bed, decides to humor her. "And what makes you say that?"

"I heard him talking to that man," she gloats. "The one who came the first time."

Her statement needs no further elaboration; Zuko springs to attention, his spine straightening so quickly that it borders on pain. At Azula's satisfied smirk, he tries to compose himself- in vain.

"You're lying." It is less a statement than a croak.

"Nope, I'm not." Azula crosses her arms over her chest. "He's here right now, in Daddy's chamber."

It is nearly two years after the binding, but sometimes- usually in the dead of night, or at the mention of that unmentionable man- the scar on his middle finger twinges, the echoes of a fresh burn.

Azula's words resume. "He apparently lives in Republic City, though I don't much see the sense in training a waterbender here... oh well." She catches Zuko's gaze. "They're still there. We could go eavesdrop now, you know."

"No... I don't want to." He shakes his head to rid it of its demons. "Besides, you're lying."

"Agni, Zuzu, I don't know how you expect to get out of this alive." She shakes her head, the movement full of contempt. "You're so _weak_."

"Don't call me that," he says, though the admonishment is a bit absentminded; his mind is full of burning flesh and white cloaks.

"He's going to kill you, Zuko."

"No he _won't_," Zuko spits angrily. "I'm his _son_. Dad wouldn't do that to me."

"He won't burn you to death or shoot an arrow through your heart." Azula rolls her eyes, as though the mention of Zuko's potential death is trivial. "He won't do it _directly_. But you'll die in the challenge. I just heard him say so."

"Stop." His words start out weak, wracked with fear at her plausible words; then grow stronger with anger, anger at her audacity and attitude and sheer nonchalance. "Stop it with your hate and your mind games. Just go to bed. I'm sure Dad's got some tool waiting to fawn over you tomorrow, anyway."

Azula stands, unfazed.

"Besides," Zuko continues, emboldened by her silence. "Father wanted _you_ to be in the challenge first. He'd never put you in if he thought you'd die. He loves you too much for that."

Though he knew he was mostly speaking the words for his own benefit and not hers, a calm settled in the pit of his stomach at the plausibility of his reasoning.

"I wish that was true," Azula speaks, finally. "But I know what I heard. This challenge is going to kill you."

Suddenly, all the fragile reassurance he built shatters.

"Anyways, I've thought of a way to help you."

Zuko's eyes snap to Azula's. "You did?"

Azula nods firmly. "Yes. You can run away. And, you know, maybe find a nice Earth Kingdom family to adopt you."

"Stop it." He watches her try and fail to hold back a smile. "You just want my spot in the challenge."

"No." Azula shakes her head, somewhat sadly. "No, I really, _really _don't."

For the first time that night, perhaps for the first time in his entire _life_, her words seem genuine.

And that is what terrifies him most of all.

Satisfied, Azula turns to leave; then, almost as an afterthought, returns her attention to Zuko.

"I heard them say the name of your opponent," she speaks into the darkness. "It's a girl."

Even while swathed in shadows, Azula sees what little color there was in Zuko's usual pallor fall from his face.

"Her name's Katara," she continues, and when his slightly sickened expression doesn't budge, she frowns.

"One would think you'd at least look _grateful_," she seethes, before turning away for the final time. "I might have just saved your life."

* * *

As wondrous as waterbending is, Katara finds herself growing lonely.

Though she didn't have any close friends at the orphanage, she was always surrounded by the bustle children; now, Katara's only contact with humanity is through the books she reads. The man in white possesses an impressive library, and he allows her to read whenever she isn't training; provided that he approves the text, of course.

Sometimes, though, reading isn't enough, and Katara finds herself staring out of her window.

It's a small window, and not one with a view too unique; it overlooks a hatching of streets and what seems to be a noodle bar. But there is life pouring in from that window; in the form of hurried crowds bustling towards the marketplace, Satomobiles racing into the hours of the night.

Then, there is the dome.

It is a golden thing of wrecked beauty, a jewel among the gray of surrounding buildings. Somehow, Katara knows it is not up to its full glory; she realizes it should be more prominent, somehow full of light.

She asks the man in white about it during her first days in the flat. "What's that golden building... that one, right there?"

He stalks away without a reply.

* * *

The sparrowkeet issues a broken sound, very different from its usual coo.

Zuko holds the wounded bird in his hands, afraid to let a finger twitch for fear of hurting it. Azula opts to kill it, predictably. "No," Zuko protests. "We'll find a way to heal it."

Until now, their father was merely observing. "Fine," he jumps in. "Heal it."

Zuko stares at the bird, then at his father, mystified. "I- I don't know how. I don't know enough about medicine, and I can't heal it myself... but I'll find someone-"

"We don't have time for that," his father interrupts. "Heal it, now, or else I'll give Azula a chance to excersise her... proposition."

Zuko begins to understand. His eyes burn with defeat.

"That's right." Ozai's tone is almost taunting. "We're not waterbenders. We don't heal. We destroy."

_That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. _"Just because I can bend fire, doesn't mean I have to go around killing animals."

Wordlessly, Ozai reaches out and cradles his son's pale hands. "Kill it."

Zuko swallows and shakes his head. "_No_."

Ozai allows himself a dramatic sigh before he swiftly takes the sparrowkeet from his son and twists its neck, ignoring Zuko's cry of protest.

Azula smirks as she passes her immobilized brother, and Ozai pauses to hiss in Zuko's ear. "_Weak_."

Zuko stands where he is, motionless, for a long, long time after they depart; watching helplessly as emerald feathers flutter to the ground.

* * *

Helpless tears spill past her eyelids as the man in white carefully slides the blade against Katara's skin, slicing her fingertips open.

"Now," the man in white says, voice eerily calm compared to the sobs that wrack the shoulders of the small girl beside him. "Let's see if you have healing abilities."

Katara fights to calm herself. She chokes back her tears and lifts a shaking hand above the basin of water that sits before her, bends a tendril of water into the air, and allows it to envelop her hand.

The water trembles and threatens to slip; but Katara holds it through sheer will, then touches it to the blood welling on her fingertips.

Nothing happens. She holds her hands still for what seem like eternity, till sweat begins to bead on her forehead from the intensity of her concentration. Eventually, she gives up, letting the water splash to the floor. "I can't."

"We'll try again tomorrow." The man in white stands and smooths his cloak in one fluid motion. "Master Pakku is waiting."

Katara meets his eyes, then lets her gaze fall to her bleeding hand. The man in white either doesn't understand her message or chooses to ignore it, for he quickly makes his way out of her chamber; and, after a minute, Katara does too, fingertips still throbbing mercilessly.

* * *

Zuko grows angrier as he advances in years; his rage growing towards some amorphous, gray thing. Sometimes the anger is so palpable that it gives way to misery- and when it does, Zuko doesn't cry. He never cries. Instead, he bends, in any weather, at any hour, in any place; he firebends until his emotions evaporate from his pores, until he collapses from exhaustion, a part of him hoping all the while that he'll get caught.

* * *

At first, Katara cries when the man in white slices her fingertips open. But as years pass and the action becomes familiar, she grows used to it.

Still, the muscles in her shoulders knot with tension every time he touches his blade to her skin, regardless of how effortlessly or perfectly she heals it.

"I hate this," she says one day.

At that, the closest thing she'd ever seen to a smile graces her caretaker's face. "I would be worried if you didn't."

Despite that wondrous connection, however, nothing changes; though Katara didn't truly expect it to. She trains with Master Pakku, eats her dinner, then sits still so the man in white could slice open her newly healed fingers again and again and again and again and again.

* * *

At thirteen, Zuko spends an entire month in bed, and a few months after that with a bandage over one eye.

His sleep is riddled with nightmares of that night- the night where his father changed his face. Some of these dark dreams are riddled with demons, and some are scarily accurate; but Zuko can't determine which are more terrifying.

_I'm leaving, father_. The rain was relentless- Zuko remembers that rain, plastering his clothes to his body like a second skin._ I'm leaving! And I'm not coming back. _

_Don't be a fool. _His father's voice, even while faced with the possibility of losing his son, is taunting. _You can't _leave_. You have a duty, you're bound._

_I'm sick of being bound! _Zuko had reached the point of screaming, past the roar of the rain._ I'm sick of the challenge, I'm sick of training, all of it!_

They had yelled obscenities; two forces, just as stubborn, at war. But, eventually, sheer desperation won.

_Fine_. Ozai had finally relented. _If you want to leave..._

Zuko remembers this part with perfect clarity; the way his father's gaze had fallen, then steeled, the way he'd shrugged off his clothes until his back and torso were bare to the onslaught of rain.

_... fight me. _

Zuko remembers this part, too; the way something seemed to groan in his chest, the way he'd closed his eyes and hoped to open them and find himself someplace else, because how could his father ask that of him?

But when he opened his eyes, his father was still there; except now, he'd raised his fists.

_I won't fight you._

The insistence, the denial, the repetition.

_I won't fight you!_

Then, of course, came the flames and the agony; and at that point, Zuko tosses out of his nightmare and shoots up in bed, screaming.

* * *

When Katara is fourteen, she tries to use her nearly perfected healing abilities to pry off her invisible ring.

"Bindings are permanent," the man in white speaks, materializing from the very shadows.

"And.. just _what_ am I bound to?" Her voice is bitter, tears barely held in check. "You've never quite made that clear."

"You were eight when your training begun," the man says. "It was out of mercy that I never divulged full details."

Katara releases a mirthless laugh, the image of skin sliced open still fresh in her mind. "Mercy was never one of your strong points."

He appears unfazed. "You wouldn't have understood. You still can't, and I doubt you ever will."

"Try me. I _deserve_ to know." She lifts her hands as proof; scars criss-cross the skin of her open palms and fingers, from the days when she was a child who couldn't overcome her tears quickly enough to heal.

"It's nothing personal. This is a truly complex matter that few people in the world can fully comprehend."

"But I'm a part of it," she insists. "I- I _suffer_ from it, and somehow, I_... _I doubt that the worst years are behind me." She swallows after saying this, the words hitting her hard. "Just... just _please_ tell me what it is I'm bound to. That, at least."

The man in white concedes. "You're bound to a fate."

Katara raises an eyebrow. "I'm not settling for that."

Again, the man relents. "You're bound to an obligation that has existed for quite some time, and you're bound to a person who you won't meet for a while."

"The challenge," she echoes. "And my opponent."

"Yes."

She begins to plead anew. "I already _knew_ that-"

"That's all I can tell you," the man in white interrupts. "The rest, even if I were to entrust to you, would either kill you or drive you to the point of insanity."

Katara is shocked into silence; and although she's never heard her caretaker joke during all the years she knew him, she hopes sincerely that this is a night of firsts.

The man in white exists her room, having deemed the conversation concluded. "Sleep well."

But she doesn't; in fact, she hardly sleeps a wink. During the coarse of the night, her mind worries and obsesses over the details she doesn't know, over the little she _does_ know; all the while her fingers take turns tracing the band engraved into her skin. Her mind wanders frequently to her opponent; to who he or she might be, to what they had gone through for the sake of this cursed challenge, to what they were thinking of at this very second.

But as soon as they appear, she admonishes herself for these thoughts; then returns her gaze to the ring buried in her skin, upon which falls a perfect shaft of moonlight. Invisible to the world, buried in blankets and walls and the white noise of an entire city, Katara curls herself into a ball and cries.

* * *

_A/N: _Please review! The more reviews, the quicker the update. :)


	4. Blood and Bone

**Blood and Bone**

_A/N: _I apologize profusely for the long wait! I've been very busy and so I embarked on a general hiatus, which I'm glad to announce is now over! Enjoy this chapter. Please review!

* * *

_Year 328 ASC_

When she is sixteen, the man in white deems her ready for a new instructor.

Katara can only process relief at being rid of Pakku; she smiles at the old woman who walks through the door, into a room that hardly witnesses new faces.

"My name is Hama," the woman says, and her voice is kind. "Let's begin."

For a moment, Katara stands still, awaiting further instruction; but when none comes, and there is only the expectant expression on Hama's face, Katara begins to waterbend. She lifts a tendril of water from the jug that stands permanently in the corner, moves it above her head; a water whip snaps from her fingers. Her gaze returns to her instructor, only to find that Hama's mildly interested expression hasn't budged.

So, Katara moves into another stance, than another; by the end of the afternoon, she's performed every waterbending move she knows, and her knees are trembling with exhaustion. Still, Hama says nothing, and Katara is nearly through with doing the set a second time before her instructor holds up a hand. Katara lets the water fall to the floor, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

"That will be all." Hama smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, she glides from the room, the door closing behind her with a soft _click_.

Katara barely musters the energy to eat her dinner before collapsing upon the mattress and instantly falling asleep. The next day, when Hama walks into the room, Katara lifts her sore arms to waterbend; but Hama stops her with a raised hand.

"We won't be waterbending today."

Katara lets the slightly raised water fall into the jug, then turns to her instructor, confused.

"We'll be learning _about_ waterbending."

Brow still slightly furrowed, Katara follows Hama to the pile of cushions in the corner, which the old woman drops into with surprising grace.

"What do you know about waterbending, Katara?"

Katara bristles at the unprecendented question. She had expected a lecture, not a sort of questionaire.

"Not much," she admits. "Bending isn't... something commonly spoken of."

"Do you read, Katara?"

"Yes," Katara answers promptly.

"And what have you learned about waterbending from your readings?"

Katara replies irritably. "Waterbending isn't a common subject in books, either."

"There are many books about waterbending," Hama tells her. "Countless records of our history. And they can be accessed with surprisingly small effort." With this last, she fixes Katara with a glare that is almost accusing.

"I was raised in an orphanage," Katara says, half defensive and half annoyed. "And I hardly have more freedom here. I couldn't access books about waterbending no matter how hard I tried."

Hama chooses to ignore this small rant. "And what do you know of the other elements?"

Katara turns slightly pink; the little knowledge she has of waterbending is only rivaled by how little she knows of the other elements. Her new instructor seems determined to embarrass her.

"I don't know anything about the other elements," she says in a huff. "And I don't know much history, either, of bending, or of the war, or of the revolution, or-"

"You seem to know a lot," Hama interrupts her.

Katara's cheeks grow even more flushed. "That's all I really know. I'm not..." She struggles to find the right words. "I could use a teacher."

This seems to be exactly what Hama wants to hear; her wizened face breaks into a smile, the wrinkles and grooves appearing more deeply etched.

"Then come, and learn."

* * *

Zuko masters firebending at the age of eighteen.

There is no ceremony, no celebration, nothing out of the ordinary. There isn't the slightest thing to even suggest the success of mastering the ancient art. Zuko is training on the deck of the ship transporting Ozai's theater crew, weary from lack of sleep and the damp morning, when he hears Ozai's voice behind him and lets the flames in his fists die.

"You've mastered firebending," Ozai says curtly. There is no preamble, no change of expression. "Congratulations."

Zuko's heart is beating wildly in his chest, but he's mastered the art of keeping a stoic expression. He merely nods, and his father retreats to his chambers.

_I've mastered firebending_, he tells himself, trying to find some joy in the thought. Some pride, perhaps, or something reminiscent of victory. There is nothing; instead, a leaden weight settles in his chest, a heavy, black realization.

The challenge must start soon.

It is inevitable. It is fact. There is nothing to be done after mastering his element, and so the dawn of the challenge must be close; his dear old dad wouldn't have it any other way.

He's mastered firebending, and so the thing he has waited for and dreaded his entire life- his curse and his salvation- must be nearly upon him.

He's mastered firebending, and this can only be the beginning of the end.

* * *

"Good, good."

Hama's small murmurs of encouragement spur Katara on, as she moves from stance to stance, her body weight shifting as easily as the water she manipulates.

"Water is life," Katara recites. This is the way Hama prefers it; as Katara trains, she is to recount the knowledge Hama taught her. At that moment, it strikes her how different Hama is from her previous instructor. Pakku would stand silently, moodily, opening his mouth only to bark instructions and allowing no questions. Hama is different. Hama, with her constant encouragement, with her wealth of knowledge that she is only too willing to share. Hama, who is also from the Southern Water Tribe; Katara basked in this information when it was revealed to her, feeling a connection to the older woman.

Katara's tongue darts out of her mouth, tasting sweat on her upper lip; she is exhausted, but exhilarated.

"Water can be found in all living things."

The water she bends moves in a quick blur. "A waterbender..." Hama prompts.

"A waterbender is never at a disadvantage," Katara continues; and, at this, she sends the water that surrounds her back into the large jug, then drags her fingers through the air. Her brow screws up in concentration, and she is rewarded; for beads of water appear from thin air, clinging to Katara's slim fingers.

"For there is water everywhere." Katara finishes her recitation, and she is unable to keep a small, proud smile from curving her lips.

"Aha!" Hama's thin smile is only another groove in her wrinkled face. "Perfect."

* * *

_Year 329 ASC_

Today, Hama seems restless. Katara speeds through her forms quickly, and with more care than she usually gives them; she isn't used to Hama's silence, and it makes her slightly uncomfortable.

When she has thoroughly drained a bouquet of fire lillies from the water that flows in their stems, Hama lifts a hand to stop her.

"You're ready," is all she says.

Katara's heartbeat accelerates. Has she mastered waterbending? Is this the challenge- will it happen now? Will Hama take her to it?

Swallowing her thoughts, Katara opens her mouth to ask, "For what?"

"A technique that I have never taught before." Despite her instructor's thrilling words, Katara feels her shoulders relax; this isn't the challenge. She still has time.

Hama, undeterred by Katara's thoughts, continues to speak, her beady eyes strangely alight. "This is an ancient bending form unique to the Southern Water Tribe. Our home."

A sudden, wry smile twists Hama's mouth. "I have been waiting my whole life to meet a waterbender from my own tribe- and I have finally been rewarded." She pauses to lick her dry lips. "I will pass it on to you, so that you may teach it to others."

Katara hardly thinks that there are other waterbenders for her to teach it to to; and if there are, she doesn't presume she will meet them. To have already met two masters is more luck than one could dream of, and she doubts she will strike a third time.

Still, she keeps silent; Hama is trembling with an almost visible excitement, and the air seems to crackle with a newfound energy. Katara can sense that something monumental is about to be revealed.

"When I was young," Hama says. "There were a few waterbenders in my tribe."

Katara's eyes bulge. "A _few_?"

"Waterbenders weren't always extinct," Hama elaborates. "Still, we were only a handful of people. We didn't fully understand our power, but we loved it, relished in it... and we helped each other nurture it."

Hama pauses, and Katara cocks her ears, listening intently to the story.

"But we couldn't show it. Due to the ways of the world, we were forced to hide our skills. Some of my friends, however, were not content with this; and eventually, they made their bending abilities public."

Katara is barely aware of the breath trapped in her lungs. She has always known that she is to keep her bending secret; that on _no_ account is she to slip. Yet, she doesn't precisely know what would happen to her if she _was _to slip; the consequence is some vague, amorphous thing.

She realized that she is about to find out.

"There was so much noise," Hama finally speaks.

Katara's brow furrows. "Noise?"

The old woman nods. "People who were outraged, people who rejoiced. Officials, peasants, foreigners and family. People who were afraid of us."

Here, Hama's eyes narrow, and she takes on the air of one who is divulging something either very important or very wise. "That's the biggest problem, you know- that they're afraid. That fear. They fear us because of what we can do." Her eyes grow misty. "It wasn't always the way."

"What happened then?" Katara's eyes are wide.

"War, of course." Her mouth twists in a bitter parody of a smile. "Bloodshed. Some of my friends wouldn't back down, and they lost their lives. Many of them were imprisoned. I was one of those prisoners- and I was taken to the Fire Nation."

Hama's eyes grow cloudy. "Barely any food. Barely any water- they bound our hands and our feet when they fed us water, like we were _animals, _because they were afraid- afraid of what we could do. But they didn't know what I know... they didn't know the thing I've been teaching you."

Here, Hama pauses significantly, expectantly; and Katara realizes that she is supposed to speak.

"Water is life," she begins uncertainly. "Water can be found in all living things."

"_Yes_," Hama urges.

"A waterbender is never at a disadvantage, for there is water everywhere."

"True." Hama nods fervently as she speaks, her stringy hair bobbing about her head. "All true. And _that_ is how I escaped."

Katara's brow furrows. "I... I don't really understand."

Hama's beady eyes take on a nearly manic glow. "_Bloodbending_."

At the single, chilling word, Katara feels the color drain from her face; her body is frozen, her throat is dry, her heart is a fist.

Hama, however, seems unpurturbed. "There is water in every living thing... and that includes us. Every artery, every vein, is a petal of a fire lily... I can drain it, move it, do whatever I want. Our bodies are vessels of water, at a waterbender's control."

Still, Katara cannot speak.

"I practiced with the rats first," Hama continues. "It required skill. It required patience. And then, when I was finished with the rats... I was ready for the men. I escaped during the full moon, when my bending was at its strongest. And now..." Hama's tone adopts a sort of finality, and Katara can tell that the unpleasant story is nearly at its end. "Now, I will teach the technique to you, and you will pass it on."

Through some sheer power of will, Katara finds her voice. "I don't think I could do it."

"Nonsense," Hama says, tone clipped. "Master Pakku and I have trained you well. You are nearly a master.. you can do it."

"It's not that. I... I don't think I _want _to."

Hama's eyes fly open. "What?"

"I just don't think I can do that. Just imagining it... to reach _inside _someone... to rob them of their will..."

But Hama's face is a stony mask, one that will accept no argument, however morally sound. "You will bloodbend, Katara."

"No." Katara finds her voice in full, and it is as firm and defiant and absolute as ever. "I won't."

"Excuse me?"

Katara stands, already half-turning her back on her stewing instructor. She's obeyed the man in white and the instructors he brought her in absolutely everything, but she _will not_ obey him in this.

"I will not bloodbend, and you can't make me."

* * *

"Where do you think you're going?"

Zuko halts in his steps, one foot lodged outside the theatre, his arm holding the heavy door open. When he answers, he doesn't turn. "I was going for a walk."

"Since when are you allowed to take _walks_?"

"The challenge hasn't yet started." Zuko doesn't try to keep the irritation from his voice. "What does it matter what I do in the meantime?"

"You need the practice," he snaps. "Your training is far from over."

"Really?" This new, sardonic tone- this _defiance_- isn't him. He tried to defy before, and it cost him dearly. At the thought, his bad eye twitches. "I was under the impression that I was a master."

The next moment is swallowed by a defeaning sound. A fierce roar rings through the hall, shaking the theatre's walls; the flames that erupt from Ozai's mouth lick at the cieling, turning the pleasant beige a charred, damaged black. The heat from the fire singes the hairs on the back of Zuko's neck.

Still, Zuko doesn't turn; but he lets his arm drop to his side, taking a step back. The theatre door falls shut, and Zuko stands on the inside.

"_Weak_."

Zuko can see his father's expression in his mind's eye; a satisfied smirk at war with a disgusted frown. Victory and disappointment.

When Zuko finally turns to face his father, he doesn't find him. It appears that Ozai deemed the conversation over. Zuko can barely spot the back of his maroon robes as he disappears into the bowels of the theatre.

"Father."

He hasn't called him by this title in years; in fact, he hasn't called him at all. Ozai, it seems, recognizes this, for he turns to face his son in small increments, surprise etched across his features.

Suddenly, and for no concrete reason, he is reminded of an unfortunate sparrowkeet.

"It doesn't have to be like this." Zuko gestures towards the destroyed ceiling. "It doesn't have to be about destruction."

Ozai's expression clearly states that he is niether moved nor amused. "Yes, it does. How else will you win?"

"But... does it have to be about winning?" As Zuko speaks, his father moves forward; and, foolishly taking this as a sign of encouragement, Zuko plows on. "At least, does it have to be about winning all the time? Not everything is a competition." Azula's face flashes before his mind's eye. "Not everything is a potential victory. A conquest."

Ozai doesn't answer, and Zuko can feel his heart beat faster. He can't remember the last time he spoke that many words in one breath; let alone honest words spoken to his own father.

"Fire doesn't have to destroy. Look."

Thinking that he surely must be crazy, Zuko lifts his hands and shows his father what he can do.

First, there is a two-headed rat viper; a thin coil of flame, thickest at the heads, then winding down to a slim tail. The expertly created body appears strong and sinewy; two twin sets of fangs and forked tongues protrude from the snake's lipless mouths. The reptile is so realistic that Zuko, surprised at his own skill, half expects it to hiss.

Next is a minature rabaroo. The flames lick at each other, angling downwards, so as to give the impression of fur. Its eyes are small and beady, it's teeth large and flat. A thin sheen of sweat covers Zuko's brow, fruit of his intense concentration.

The flames collapse in on themselves, a small sphere, before obeying Zuko's will and fanning out; now, a small sparrowkeet hovers in the air before them. It's feathers appear lustrous and smooth, though they are fiery oranges and red instead of cool emerald. Its beak opens in a silent song.

Finally, Zuko lets his hands fall; the flames fade into nothingness. He chances a glance at his father.

Annoyance flashes in Ozai's eyes. He lifts a heavy paperweight from a table beside him, and in two wide strides he stands before Zuko. He brings it down on Zuko's hand, hard enough to break his wrist with a sharp crack.

"Weak," he spits. It is no longer a vindictive hiss but more a sound of pure disgust.

Zuko kicks the theatre door open, cradling his wrist to his chest, the cool air greeting his inflamed skin.

He pauses for a second to see if anyone will call after him, but there is nothing; and Zuko spends the better part of the night wondering how this could hurt more than the broken shards of bone.

* * *

Two weeks pass, and Hama will not relent.

The day after Katara refuses to bloodbend, the moment she has been dreading since arrives; the confrontation with the man in white.

"I heard that you have disobeyed your instructor in a flagrant manner." His tone, when he says this, is cool. Katara doesn't know whether or not to be relieved; she had expected anger, but this lack of emotion is frightening in its own way.

"I won't do it," she says, and it takes all of her control to keep her voice from trembling. This is a new defiance. "It's wrong."

Oddly enough, the man in white drops the matter. He draws something from his cloak, and Katara glimpses a small glint in his glove; a second later, the knife she has become all too familiar with lies in his outstretched hand. Katara presents her own, palm up, barely stifling a sigh.

The days that follow pass in the same fashion. Hama arrives in their apartment every morning and attempts to force or convince Katara to bloodbend. Each one of her attempts fail.

"You will need this technique before the end." Hama's beady eyes land on the telling scar on Katara's middle finger. "You can't win without it."

"I don't care about winning," Katara retorts. In reality, however, mention of the challenge has affected her more than any of Hama's other approaches.

Later that day, after Katara finishes her training and eats her dinner, a series of knocks descend upon the apartment door.

Katara's eyes, which have been trained on the book in front of her, fly open; then narrow in suspicion. The man in white never knocks before entering their apartment.

This must be a visitor, then. A memory of a man with a pointy black beard and amber eyes pervades her thoughts, sending a chill up her spine.

Another knock. Another.

Katara slowly stands, discarding the book; she notices her shaking hands. Her mouth twists in irritation, and she silently wills them to stop. They do, and Katara takes a steadying breath. She is a master waterbender, not a helpless little girl. Whoever stands behind that door cannot possibly hurt her.

Besides, she is unbearably curious.

With bated breath, Katara moves to the door. When she opens it, she is surprised to find a boy no older than ten standing before it, a large pack slung over his shoulder.

"Good evenin', sir..." He looks up. "I mean, ah, miss," he quickly amends. "Sorry, not used to no girls openin' up this door."

"That's okay. Really, it's... okay." A strange exhilaration fills her. She realizes that she hasn't spoken to anyone except her caretaker and her two instructors for quite a few years. "Would you like to come in?"

"Ah..." The boy looks uncomfortable. "No. That ain't part of the job." He reaches into the pack, pulls out a few scrolls. "Here's yer mail."

"Oh." Her heart plummets as quickly as it had filled with excitement. She takes the scrolls. "Thank you."

The boy stands still for a second, an expectant gleam in his eyes, before he shakes his head and departs, grumbling.

Katara closes the door behind her, then walks in a trance-like state to the kitchen. She settles the scrolls on the kitchen table. Minutes later, she lies down on her bed, wide-eyed and alert, both exhilarated and weighted down by the unremarkable encounter.

* * *

On a swelteringly hot afternoon, Ozai recieves a letter he has been expecting for quite some time.

He thanks Agni that he is away from both Azula and Zuko as the messenger hawk flutters to his shoulder; an obscenely ecstatic smile has spread across his face while his eyes scan the distinct, flourishing handwriting. Besides, he wants to be alone while he concocts a proper reply.

Eventually, after much tapping of his fingers and miniature fits of rage, he does. The reply is complete. _More_ than complete- it is perfect. Zuko's place in the venue is guaranteed.

After the reply is sent, Ozai pulls another scroll from a drawer and sets about writing a second letter, one that consists of only two words. When that, too, is sent, Ozai settles back in his chair and laughs.

* * *

"Katara, your insolence is no longer entertaining."

It is Hama. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her expression bored. Katara, drenched in sweat due to the vigorous excercises Hama is forcing on her, bares her teeth.

"Your_ insistence _is no longer entertaining," she retorts.

Hama is not amused nor angered by her cheek. "You need to practice bloodbending to win the challenge. Do you understand that?"

"I won't do it!" Her breath comes quickly, spurred by adrenaline and anger. "Do _you_ understand that?"

"Katara."

Surprised at the interruption, Katara turns at the new- but not quite new- voice. It is her caretaker. The man in white stands in the doorway, his hands folded in front of him.

"What?" she says irritably.

"You have a visitor."

Katara starts to protest dismissively; no, it can't be, because she doesn't have anyone to visit her, he'd taken care of that, thank you very much, so could he kindly leave her alone so that she could settle this situation with her instructor?

But then the man in white steps to the side, and behind him is a visitor far smaller in stature than any she might have expected.

The mailboy of a few days prior stands in the doorway. He does not carry the worn, brown pack she remembers. He carries nothing besides the clothes on his back and his newsboy cap. His dark eyes are bleary and unfocused behind an unruly tuft of hair.

"What is this?" Katara is aware of the telltale jugs of water in the room, of her own dishevelled, sweaty state. She's dimly aware that this is horribly wrong, but only horribly wrong for _her_, not for her caretaker, nor for her instructor. They planned this. She didn't understand how or why, but she didn't doubt it for a second. "Why is he here?"

"You two are friends, aren't you?" The man in white cocks his head to the side expectantly.

"No." Is that what this is? Is he going to punish her for talking to the mailboy? But then, why is he here? Was he to be punished, too? She isn't surprised that her caretaker knows about the small conversation; the man in white knows everything.

"Nonetheless," he continues, undeterred. "He is here to watch you train."

Katara notices, again, the boy's unusually dull eyes. She wills her beating heart to still. "What did you do to him?"

"Only what you allow us to do." The man in white smiles; though to call it a smile is not entirely accurate. It is a chilling and cryptic display of perfectly white teeth, and nothing more.

Suddenly, Hama raises her arms, and a second later a group of ice daggers rush at the mailboy's head.

"_No_!" Katara leaps, deflecting the daggers with a series of expert moves. She chances a wide-eyed glance at the boy, who's bleary expression hasn't changed. She then glares at Hama. "What is _wrong_ with-"

Her words break off as she loses control of her mouth. Katara stares down at herself, bewildered. Inch by inch, her limbs ceade control to some external force; and Katara raises her eyes to Hama, finding her fingers poised.

_No._

But her silent cry of disbelief goes unheeded as Hama bends her body to her will. She forces Katara to prance about the length of the room, to stand in unnatural, acrobatic positions that make her wince in pain. She has Katara lift the broken edge of an ice dagger and draw a bloody line down her own arm. She flings her to and fro, and Katara is hardly aware of the tears pricking at her eyes.

All the while, the man in white stands silent, even when Katara lifts her eyes to him in a silent plea.

"Stop." She doesn't notice when, amidst the mindless torture, her ability to move her lips is restored to her. "Please. Please stop."

"Don't hurt your friend, Katara," is Hama's reply. "And don't let him hurt himself!"

Startled, Katara whips her head in the direction of the door. Through the panicked haze that follows, it doesn't register in her mind that control of her limbs has been returned to her.

The boy holds a knife in his hand, and presses the edge of the blade to his own throat.

"_No_!" Without thinking, Katara raises her hands, feels the thrum of water in another's body, and bends.

Hama bows beneath Katara's power. The boy, released from her spell, releases the dagger. His arm hangs limply at his side. His eyes are still blissfully unaware.

Katara's gaze is drawn from their examination of the boy when Hama begins to laugh.

"Smart." The kneeling woman laughs. "Very smart. Why did you bend my blood, I wonder, and not the boy's? Very curious. Very smart."

"Shut up," Katara hisses.

Hama throws her head back, cackling. "Congratulations, Katara. You're a bloodbender."

The full force of what she's done hits Katara like a wave. She realizes that she's still doing it- that sick thing, that undeserved torture, that cruel subjugation. Katara immediately lets her hands drop, releasing Hama, who slowly stumbles to her feet.

Standing, Hama turns to the man in white and lifts her chin. "My work here is done."

The man in white nods in response, then begins to escort her from the room. They leave the boy behind. Katara watches them go, disbelief and anger and pain and betrayal boiling in the cavity behind her chest, before all the strength leaves her body and she crumples to the floor in a sobbing heap.

She never saw the boy again.

* * *

When Zuko turns twenty one, Ozai takes him on an impromptu trip to Republic City. Azula doesn't come.

Once there, Zuko follows his father on a fast-paced ride through the city until they reach what Ozai tells Zuko is his new home. Zuko is surprised, but he wears his stoic mask well. The flat is small in size, with one bedroom, a sitting area, and a wide kitchen. It is modestly furnished, a far cry from the lavish theatres he is used to. But Zuko finds it difficult to quell the joy he feels at being rid of his father.

As Ozai departs, having barely spoken any words to his son, he turns for his own convoluted goodbye. "You'll disappoint me."

Zuko's stared back at him, long and hard. "It's impossible not to."

The weeks that follow are varied in nature. There is a very brief transition period. Zuko hardly possesses any material things of importance, and the only things that need sorting are his books. The flat comes with a wardrobe stuffed with tailored clothes, courtesy of his father. Thankfully, the man did not employ his own eccentric taste while supplying his son with clothes; they are simple, even elegant, ranging in shades of black and gray with the occasional hint of ice white.

Free from rigid schedules and a controlling father, Zuko roams the city. He visits parks and restaurants, spends long afternoons walking even longer avenues. He realizes he has not walked this way since he was a child, before the vigorous training began. He intends to relish it.

He does not. At least, not fully.

After the initial elation at being rid of his father fades, he realizes that this move can only mean one thing; the challenge is closer than ever. Zuko continues to train daily. He re-reads the books he's imprinted to memory over the years. Every day, he expects a letter from some anonymous body to tell him what he's to do. As he walks, he half expects some thug to pull him into a darkened alley and transport him to an arena, where the full weight of the challenge will fall on his shoulders. He walks with his shoulders hunched, his fists balled, his mind uneasy, though he doubts that he will fight if he _is_ taken.

Sometimes, there is peace, but the challenge is always a presence in his mind.

One rainy afternoon, having bathed after a particularly long training session, Zuko dons his black overcoat and sets out for his favorite tea shop with the full intent of buying a cup of the hot concoction which may or may not soothe his mind. When he arrives and places his order, however, he realizes that he's forgotten his money in his haste. He curses aloud, attracting the stare of an older woman.

"Sorry," he grumbles. He searches his pockets again, thinking that perhaps he wasn't thorough the first time.

"Short on change?"

Zuko looks up. A young woman stands beside him, smiling gently. She has a messy crop of short black hair, and a pleasantly round face. Her eyes are large, and they sparkle up at him, in an indeterminate shade that can't seem to decide if it is hazel or green.

"Um, excuse me, Mister?"

Zuko realizes he is staring. He coughs. "Sorry."

Her smile widens. "I was saying, did you need change?"

It is on Zuko's tongue to refuse- he wasn't raised to accept money from women, regardless of how desperate he is, and he certainly isn't desperate. But that would mean turning her away, and he doesn't quite want to do that.

"Sure," he finds himself saying, and the girl's smile widens further, if that is possible. She pays for his tea, then turns the full force of her smile on him. "Sit with me?"

It occurs to Zuko that he's never been in this sort of situation before. In fact, he's never spoken with a girl of his age group that wasn't his sister before. He feels himself begin to panic, then wills his mind to stop moving in overdrive, feeling foolish.

The girl chooses a table by the window. The rain softly pitter-patters against the glass as the young couple take simultaneous sips from their respective cups.

They're quiet. Zuko wonders if he's expected to speak. "Thank you, for um, the tea."

"No problem. I'm glad to help someone in distress."

Zuko sips from his tea to avoid answering. She fixes her gaze on him. "You haven't told me your name."

"Ah." Zuko falters. "It's Zuko." The name, though his own, feels strange on his tongue. The oppurtunities to use it over the years haven't been many.

"I'm Jin." She extends a hand over the table and smiles again, and Zuko thinks that she is really quite pretty when she smiles like that. "It's nice to meet you."

Zuko takes her hand. Her skin is soft. "It's nice to meet you, too."

They talk of inconsequential things. Zuko doesn't volunteer much information about himself, and neither does she. At some point, they are surprised to find common ground in travelling.

"I haven't travelled much," Jin admits. "Just Ba Sing Se. That's where I'm from. But you know what they say... 'You don't need to travel the world if you've been to Republic City.'"

"I suppose that's true."

"Isn't it? I feel like I _have_ travelled, because this city's so diverse." She lifts her hands, gesturing to the deep red walls that encompass them. "Take this cafe, for example. It's completely Fire Nation. It has the best tea in the city."

"I'll take your word for it," Zuko says. "I haven't been here long."

"Really? Where were you before you came here?"

Zuko pauses, uncomfortable. "Around. My family never stayed in one place for too long."

"That's exciting!" Jin leans over the table. "Tell me about it."

So he does. He leaves out his family, the training, and the challenge; and as the words spilled out of him, he realizes that he is generally speaking of his life before the man in white, before he stopped noticing which cities he was living in.

They talk for a while, long after they finished their tea. Neither one of them notices. Zuko grows more and more comfortable as the conversation progresses. Jin is bright and bubbly; there is no lull in the conversation, yet she doesn't dominate it, either. She lets him speak. It registers in his mind that he could not remember the last time he _talked_ to someone; traded thoughts and words with someone that listened. Jin is listening. And he is immensely grateful for it.

He asks Jin if she is hungry. She smiles broadly and announces that she's famished.

"But there's much better places we can go to if we're going to have food," she tells him.

"Good," he says. "We can stop by my flat so I can fetch some money."

Jin insists that it isn't necessary, but Zuko is nothing if not stubborn. A short, damp walk later, the two find themselves seated at a noodle bar Jin claims she loves.

"Do you believe in magic?" Jin asks, her mouth stuffed with noodles.

Zuko nearly chokes on his food. "What?"

"It's a big topic right now," she explains. "You know, with the recent growth in the entertainment world, and theatre specifically. What do you think? Do you believe there's real magic- or is does everything have a rational explanation?"

Zuko swallows. What should he say? "I believe in magic, I think."

Jin throws her hands up triumphantly. "Exactly! I mean, if we can believe in a spirit world- and we _should_ believe, of course, despite what the modernists say, because that world exists, and those are our _roots_... if we can believe in things like _that_, how can we dare to assume that we know everything about the world we live in?"

Zuko ponders her words. When he speaks, his words come slowly. "So... do you believe in benders?"

"Sure," Jin answers easily, then pauses at the sight of his somber expression. "I mean... if I can believe in something as virtually baseless as magic, then how can I not believe in something that actually exists in our history?"

"Huh," Zuko replies. They say no more on the subject.

"I had a great time tonight," Jin proclaims two hours later, as the two walk arm in arm down the street. There is still a slight drizzle.

"Me too," Zuko says, and it is true.

"There's one more thing I have to show you before you can go home," she quips. "You haven't been properly introduced to Republic City until you've seen it."

"Okay," Zuko says, amused.

"Come on." Jin tugs on his arm, leading him through streets she seems to know like the back of her hand. Then she halts.

"Oh no!" Her tone is genuinely anguished.

"What? What is it?"

She gestures to the pond before them, to the dozens of lanterns that float atop the surface of the water.

"It's so pretty when they're lit," Jin tells him. "Especially when it's raining. Though I guess that's why nobody's bothered to light them... oh, this would have made the evening _perfect_..."

Zuko watches her bite her lip as she stares at the dark lanterns with downcast eyes, and he wants her to smile again; that bright, unabashed smile she'd worn at the tea shop.

"Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just... close your eyes."

Jin looks as though she can't decide whether to be confused or amused. Eventually, she concedes, covering her eyes with her hands.

"All closed?"

"Yeah!" Jin giggles.

Zuko's mouth quirks in a small smile. "Alright."

He steps forward, approaching the pond, then kneels. He takes care to be extremely quiet, hardly daring to breathe, as the slightest of flames ignites from his fingertips. He cups it, checks and double checks that Jin isn't watching him, then lights the first lantern. He moves along the circumfrence of the pond, repeating this pattern, until all the lanterns he could reach are lit.

He returns to Jin, laying his hands over hers. He feels her shiver. "You can look now."

She does, and gasps in delight. Her incredulous gaze moves from the pond, to Zuko, then back to the pond, before rushing towards it for a closer look. She throws her head back and laughs. Zuko approaches her, and, acting on instinct, takes her hands. She laughs again. She is still laughing when he leans forward and kisses her.

To the average passerby, they look like nothing special; just a young couple kissing in the rain.

* * *

The mail, of course, is no longer hand delivered. By some power or influence over the mysterious outside world, the man in white has ensured that no breathing soul ever knock on their apartment door. Animals, it seems, are not restricted by the new state of things; for their letters now arrive by messenger hawk, the fierce birds flying in through the apartment windows almost daily, delivering letters and newspapers dutifully.

At first, Katara is fascinated by the ferocious-looking birds. However, as they continue to report only to her caretaker and steadily ignore her, their continued appearance becomes quite dull.

Thus, nineteen-year-old Katara is startled when a hawk soars in through the window and lands on her shoulder; so started is she that she falls out of her stance, letting the water she was mastering fall to the floor.

The man in white shadows the doorway immediately. "What is that?"

"It..." Katara's wide eyes drift to the hawk's leg; a scroll is tied there. _Someone sent me a letter_. "It just landed on my shoulder."

Her gaze snaps to the man in white, suddenly afraid of his reaction. He wouldn't be angry; no, that isn't it. But as she watches his inscrutable eyes shift to the hawk, then trace a path to its leg and the scoll tied there, Katara knew what he _would_ do.

He'd try to confiscate the letter.

And there would be nothing she can do to stop him; she realizes this as well. It is something she knows as fact, a thing of inarguable reality; she knows it as well as she knows her own name, as well as she doesn't know his.

Sure enough, the man in white stretches out a hand. "Let me see it."

Katara unties the letter from the hawk's leg, wincing as its claws bit into her shoulder. When the scoll is in her hand, she considers reading it; unravelling the scroll and quickly devouring as much as she could of the letter before her caretaker pries it from her hands.

As soon as the wild thought occurs to her, however, her caretaker steps forward; and, unable to ignore the pointed look in his eyes, Katara hands the letter over.

The man in white unravels it. His eyes move from left to right, his expression stoic. Katara's eyes burn holes into the scroll's opaque surface, wishing she could glean even the smallest hint from it, a single word.

Mere seconds later, the man in white tucks the letter into some invisible pocket on the inside of his cloak. Katara is surprised; either her caretaker was able to read impossibly fast, or the letter was not very long.

The curiosity is unbearable. "What did it say?"

His reply is swift. "It's time."

"For what?" Icy fear crawls up her spine as she anticipates his answer. "The challenge?"

"Not quite yet," comes the answer. "But it's time to introduce you to the venue."

* * *

_Year 330 ASC_

In the bowels of Republic City, a man in an silk indigo waistcoat offset by a cloak of deep black tips back an elegant glass and takes a drink.

His company talks pleasantly over dishes of exquisite food. Diversity, elegance, and brilliance. It is what he sees in front of him, and it is what he hopes to create.

The man pauses when a servant brings him a letter on a gilded tray. He unravels it, then grins.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces in a voice that booms for effect. The small crowd stills and listens. "I have found us a firebender!"

* * *

_A/N: _I hope you liked it! Please review!


	5. Sometime Around Midnight

**Chapter 5**

**Sometime Around Midnight**

_Year 328, ASC_

If Manik is known for anything, it is for his variety of exquisite drinks.

His artillery ranges from firewhiskey, to ancient wines, to the most exotic and rare of tea herbs. The Tastings began on a whim. In the beginnings of his career, he brought his new, powerful acquaintances to his mansion, introducing them to the luxury of fine intoxicants. They started as small, intimate, random gatherings; but as his work grew, as he gradually shifted from the one who seeks to the one who is sought, the tastings became somewhat of a sensation. They grew from mere wine tastings to elaborate dinners, invitation only; and they take place at midnight.

These gatherings are soon dubbed Midnight Tastings; one of the most extravagant and coveted events in all of Republic City. An invitation to a Tasting is a privilege, a gift, and the guest is met with an unforgettable experience.

They are selective, these tastings- though nothing less can be expected from a poetic fiend like Manik. Everything, from the food to the guests, is carefully handpicked. His own wardrobe is treated with the same careful consideration; not a tasting passes by in which he isn't commended for his impeccable suits and cloaks.

The most distinguishing factor of the Midnight Tastings is, perhaps, the timing; spurred on by insomnia and Manik's own eccentricity. The event itself could pass for a regular dinner party; though an extravagant, unique one at that. But the nocturnal timing- the fact that the chefs bring in the plates to the first course at the very second that the clocks chime midnight- adds an air of mystery. That slight, imperceptible touch is invaluable, and Manik understands the power of atmosphere.

Most guests who depart from a Midnight Tasting don't know what to speak of; Manik has bewitched them, as he intended to. Most resort to speaking of the one thing their minds- or, rather, their taste buds- can grasp; the food. No menus are presented at these tastings; the chefs and waiters don't consult the guests before placing heaping platters before them. Manik finds that if the guests aren't given a choice or a guide regarding what they eat, it simply adds to the fun. The food itself is delectable, mouthwatering, mysterious. Platters of candied fruit sit on the long tables; apples coated in honey, bananas coated in chocolate. Berries, leechi nuts, mango, papaya, moonpeaches, and watermelon; the delectable fruit is either coated in some sugary confection that is often unheard of until then, or else served fresh. The main courses present a realm of new possibilities to the diners. Dumplings stuffed with a spicy mixture of vegetables and left to soak in thick soup. Broiled fish and wild rice and crab puffs, offset by cool cucumber. Arctic hen and noodles, alongside slices of eggplant covered in crimson sauces. Roasted duck and komodo chicken, combined with soft bread that the diners often dip into the delicious stews. No guest can ever place every flavor, meat, and seasoning; and when asked, Manik replies with a cryptic smile. All sorts of fruit and food and drink, ranging from the four nations, are always present; regardless of the season. To Manik, nothing is unattainable.

The deserts are astounding. Moon cakes lighter than air and dusted with fine powdered sugar, berries bursting with cream, pies stuffed with lacquered fruit, frozen cream in sweet waffle cones, soufflés that are surprisingly spicy, rice cakes shot through with raisins, pomegranate seeds coated in chocolate. The diners often spend minutes admiring the desserts before consuming them in slow, savory bites.

Then it's time for the wine.

Every now and then, someone will inquire as to the chefs; Manik will never divulge any of their names, and the waiters who carry in the food on gilded trays - impeccably dressed, of course- are utterly mute.

"Chefs are magicians in their own right," Manik would say when a guest is particularly persistent. "And a magician never reveals his secrets."

A joke is soon begun regarding Manik's mysterious chefs- "He's kidnapped Ba Sing Se's finest, he has," they would say. "Trapped them in his kitchens! Cut off their ears and cut off their tongues, so they can never speak of what happens in this huge house."

Manik, good-humored as always, greets this popular joke with a laugh. "Ah, but if they had no tongues, they couldn't taste… so they wouldn't be very good chefs, now would they?"

Overall, Manik's Midnight Tastings are a booming success. They are a treat to the senses, an experience that leaves an imprint. Manik aims to bewitch, and he almost always succeeds.

_Almost_. Spirits damn that accursed word.

Tonight is one of the more intimate gatherings; only -blank- people have been invited, and each for a very precise purpose. Manik straightens his cloak of deep violet and awaits their arrival.

Tonight, that word- that dreadful _almost_- will be rectified.

June is the first to arrive. She is somewhat of a legend in Republic City, both for her accomplishments and for the astonishingly young age at which she accomplished them. To the public eye, she is an artist; both on canvas and with cloth. To those who know her well, she is one of the city's most notorious bounty hunters. Both images are true, and June prides herself on being a little bit of both.

Manik can hear her chattering with his secretary from the far end of the hall; they had always been fast friends. Eventually, she is led into the dining room. She is clothed in a column of black silk, offset by a hammered gold jacket. Her black hair is loose- Manik cannot recall a time where he ever saw that ebony mass confined by pins or a braid- and her eyes are lined with dark kohl.

"June." Manik smiles when he sees her, rising from his chair and kissing her on both cheeks.

"This is astonishing," she says. "I am first to arrive? I usually pride myself on being fashionably late."

"The others will come shortly," he assures her. "This will be a rather small Tasting. Here, have some firewhiskey."

The second to arrive is a man in a worn suit in a shade that has been washed so many times that it is impossible to detect if its original color was blue or gray. It is his finest. He was utterly shocked to receive the invitation, a black scroll with words that glittered like liquid gold. He'd only heard of the famed Midnight Tastings from friends of friends. Initially, he deemed it either a mistake or a joke; but when the time came, he was too curious to not abandon his workshop and depart for Manik Manor.

Now that he is here, amidst the warm candlelight and splendor of the house, his mind has no room for doubt. He is greeted first by a woman in a long emerald dress, with chestnut hair and pretty green eyes. She introduces herself as Sumi, Manik's secretary, then leads him into another hall where he is surprised to see someone he recognizes.

"You," he says, jerking his chin to the woman with the dark eyes and porcelain skin.

"Indeed," says June. "_Me_. Manik, this is the man I told you about… he is called The Mechinist. You will find him invaluable, I am sure."

"Wonderful to meet you," says Manik. "Do you have a name?"

"Just call me The Mechinist," says he.

Manik promises to do so, and he is laughing at a joke Sumi tells when he pours The Mechinist his first ever glass of red wine.

Asami Sato walks into Manik Manor with trembling hands, though her face is a mask of indifference. This is her first time attending a Midnight Tasting, though her father has attended quite a few. In fact, when the invitation came, her father thought it definitely his, and was quite surprised when he found the black scroll addressed to his daughter. Asami spent hours wondering what it was that had earned her this invitation- had Manik heard of her racing hobby? Did he somehow discover her latest invention; a portable device that could access data all over the world? Was she there representing her father? She doesn't know as of yet, but she is determined to be sophisticated and elegant- to be someone who deserved to be in this magnificent house.

"Right this way." Sumi leads Asami to the dining hall after a maid takes her fur wrap, underneath which is a gown of maroon and black which leaves her back bare.

Three people sit on the long, elegant table, one of whom Asami recognizes. She knows Manik from his appearances at the parties her father sometimes hosts, and from events in the City Hall, but she is not sure if _he_ knows _her_. Her doubts dissolve as Manik rises from his chair and greets Asami warmly. The Mechinist greets her somewhat casually. Manik hands her a goblet of wine; Asami takes a sip, sensing hints of plum, black pepper, and blackberry. Her jumpy nerves settle as June eases her into a conversation about fashion, though it may have been the effect of the wine.

Ela and Mina arrive together. Sisters of equal beauty, they wear identical silver gowns. They look almost identical, though they are not twins. Both are slim and of medium height, with bright hazel eyes and quick smiles. The only way to tell them apart is the way they wear their brown hair; Ela wears it in a high wolftail, letting the waves brush her neck, while Mina wears it loose.

They have no steady occupations- sometimes they are dancers, sometimes actresses, sometimes musicians, sometimes waitresses, sometimes interior decorators. They were even once healers. They travel quite a bit, though they will never speak of their land of origin. In fact, they never speak of their origins at all; and the only member of their family they will speak of, besides each other, is a third sister who is never with them.

Their distinguishing trait is what they call their "vision"; their astute powers of observation. They claim that they notice every little thing, every loose thread and every hint of a scent. Their "vision" enables them to be expert stylists and decorators, as well as invaluable consultants. They style homes and museums just as often as they offer relationship advice. They are perfect compliments of each other; if one of them misses something, which is a rare occurrence, the other picks up on it.

They receive friendly greetings from everyone before taking their seats. Mina compliments June on her gown and jewels, while Ela compliments Asami on her beauty. The four women fall into bright conversation. Manik hands the sisters identical long glasses of a golden liquid, which the sisters exclaim taste like moonpeaches and honey.

The last guest to arrive is a man in a snow-white cloak, who takes his seat without a word.

Dinner is served. Through the haze of delicacies, Ela tries to ask why it is that Manik called upon such a small and disconnected group for a Midnight Tasting; but Manik shakes his head, assuring her that he will reveal everything after dinner. The conversation is pleasant and flowing, the ladies more talkative than the men. By the end of the dinner, an onlooker would have presumed they were an old group of friends, rather than a coalition of strangers who met a little more than two hours prior.

When the guests are full and sated, sipping at the dregs of their drinks, Manik stands. "If you will all join me in the library for tea, we can get down to business."

With that cryptic statement, the guests rise and follow Manik. None notice that Sumi has slipped out some time before, preparing scrolls, brushes, charcoal, and other necessities in the library.

When they are all seated in comfortable armchairs, steaming mugs in their hands, Manik stands, sheds his cloak, and begins to speak. "I have gathered you here for a precise reason. I have been thinking of an endeavor - a very exceptional endeavor- for more than ten years, as some of you know." He nodded in the direction of the man in white. "I have been distracted and preoccupied, however, and the time was never quite right. In addition, I never had a proper team- a proper set of thinkers and workers that will make this dream of mine a reality… until now. You are that team. I honestly believe will be the highlight of all my accomplishments, and yours-"

"Manik, just tell us what the 'endeavor' is," June says, dragging lazily at her cigar.

"Alright. This endeavor, this project, is…." Manik pauses dramatically. "A circus."

Mina grins. "How delightful!"

"Just… a circus?" The Mechinist says, doubt in his voice.

"Not _just_ a circus," Manik says, slightly irritated at the man's reaction. "It will be more than a circus. More than any theatre or carnival or musical performance. It will be elegant, powerful. A most beautiful assault on all the senses. Nothing ordinary. Nothing commonplace. We will… _revolutionize_ entertainment."

Manik's eyes were shining with the force of his words, his dream. The listeners sat in silence for a solid minute.

"What parts will we play in this, exactly?" It is Asami who asks this question.

"You all have very special, unique talents that I hope to utilize for this circus," Manik answers. "June can use her hunting abilities to find the best of the best- I won't accept anything less. She will also chart the wardrobe, giving the circus a distinct style. Asami and The Mechinist will work together- both brilliant engineers. Ela and Mina will use their skills to set the atmosphere of the circus. There is nothing more important than atmosphere. And you are all- all of you- artists in your own way." He pauses for effect. "You do not have to assist me- your involvement is entirely voluntary, and you may walk away from this opportunity tonight if you so desire. If you choose to stay, I warn you now that the work you do for the circus will be very time consuming, and I will expect you to make it a priority. You will, of course, be paid. Handsomely. However, if you choose to decline, I will have to ask you to keep entirely silent about everything you have heard tonight."

His speech concluded, Manik reaches for his goblet of pomegranate wine. No one makes any motion to leave the room.

"Excellent." Manik takes a long sip. "Perfect. Magnificent. I promise you, you will not regret the decisions you have just made."

"This is very exciting," Mina exclaims. "Do you have any ideas as of yet, Manik?"

"A few," he says, and Sumi lifts her pen, poised to write. "First off, we're getting rid of the generic and the mundane. No gaudy colors. No blundering beasts. Absolutely _no _hideous clowns. We will keep some things…. acrobats, and wild animals. There won't be one large tent, but a series of small ones, and each will contain a certain… _attraction_. There will be shows in some, and others will have adventures of sorts… more on that later. It will only be open at night. There will also be one distinguishing factor: benders."

The small crowd is silent, until Asami speaks tentatively. "Um… _benders_? As in earthbenders, firebenders…."

A strange glow shines in Manik's eyes as a slow grin overtakes his face. "Precisely."

* * *

_Year 330_

Zuko is halfway through one of his favorite books- he hardly reads for recreation, but he has trained especially hard that day and has decided to reward himself.

Besides, he has been thinking of Jin and he needs a distraction.

Since their impromptu meeting a week ago, he hasn't heard from her. She hadn't given him an address or any way of contacting her- and he, inexperienced as he was, didn't think to ask. She knew where he lived, and he thought she'd be the one to find him- when she didn't, he set out to find her, somehow. He'd haunted the tea shop where they'd met every day since, occasionally visiting the noodle bar and even the pond with the lanterns. She never showed.

There is a knock at his front door. Zuko nearly drops the book; he isn't used to any sort of visitors, let alone ones who drop by late at night.

It's Jin.

"Hi." She offers him a weak smile. "Can I come in?"

Zuko steps back, dragging the door with him, and lets that speak for itself.

"I don't know what I'm doing here, exactly." Jin talks quickly as she steps inside, and Zuko closes the door behind her. "So I'm sorry if it's a bad time. I was just sitting there, in my place, and I was done working and everything and I had nothing to do, and I guess I couldn't escape thinking of you…." She pauses, shuffles her feet. "So here I am."

Her eyes don't quite meet his. Suddenly, Zuko isn't sure if he wants to hear what she has to say- he isn't even sure if he wants her to be there. "What is it?"

"I… I had a great time last week. On our date. It was amazing, honestly."

Zuko doesn't smile. "Could've fooled me."

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I'm not like this- I mean, I'm not _that _girl, the one who stands up decent, good-hearted guys for no reason. I know it must seem like it, but I promise that I'm not."

Zuko nods- despite his lack of experience with the opposite gender, he believes her. He is used to trusting his instincts, and his instincts tell him that she is a genuinely nice person.

But that means that he must have done something really, _really_ wrong to warrant such a reaction from her. "What happened this time, then?"

"Nothing… I mean, nothing that's _your _fault… at least, not really. It's just… remember when we were talking, during dinner, and you mentioned… bending?"

Zuko's heart plummets to his stomach. "Yeah…"

"And… well…" She heaves a sigh, lifting her eyes to him. "How did you light those lanterns, Zuko?"

Zuko blinks. "What… how do you think I lit them?"

Her eyes soften. "I won't tell anyone. I want you to know that."

"Wait… how do you think I lit them?"

"You… bended. Somehow. I think that's what you did." She clears her throat and stands straighter. "No, I know that's what you did. You don't have to say so if you don't want to. And I certainly won't tell anyone. But… I don't think I'll be able to see you anymore."

He closes his eyes, keeps them shut for a second. When he opens them, Jin is at the door, her back turned to him.

"I can't…" He doesn't know what to say, he hasn't the slightest idea what he _can _say- could anything be said or done to make this right? He doubted it. "Can I say anything to make you stay?"

She turns and takes a few steps towards him, then presses her lips to his for a single second. "No."

He nods when she turns away, and it is his first lesson with acceptance.

* * *

_Year 328, ASC_

It is the third Midnight Tasting to discuss the circus- now fondly dubbed "Circus Dinners"- when the contortionist arrives.

The waiters are beginning to set down the first round of gilded plates, heaped high with delicacies, when a maid rushes in, announcing the contortionist. Manik is confused- he hasn't ordered any entertainment for the night- but he waves a hand to Sumi, who rises and follows the maid out of the candlelit dining hall. Ela and Mina exchange a glance, their smiles barely suppressed.

Minutes later, Manik is mildly surprised when Sumi leads an unfamiliar woman into the dining hall. He does not spare her a glance, his piercing eyes focusing instead on his secretary. "Sumi. What is the meaning of this?"

"You'll understand in a few minutes," is Sumi's cryptic answer; and then she holds a finger to her pursed lips, a signal to keep quiet, a signal that is entirely unnecessary.

For a stupefied has fallen over the diners, Manik included; the woman has shrugged off her cloak and hopped onto the table in one fluid moment.

She stands still for a moment, one arm raised, posing. She is small, her womanly figure immaculate, her waist impossibly nipped in and her legs shapely. Her costume would have been considered scandalous in other gatherings; it is a rose gown that can be better described as a pink confection, a swath of sheer fabric held in place by a laced corset. Her hair is braided, and the thin coil of hair reaches the small of her back.

The Mechinist nearly drops his fork when she begins to move.

Her movements are fluid and graceful, the likes of which none of them had ever seen before. She has the viscosity of water, leaping around their plates and the candelabras so lightly that she doesn't cause any ripples in the surface of the soups and wines. Most contortionists can either bend forward or backwards, and they fashion most of their movements on this pattern; this woman does both, bending her body into incredbile positions.

And all the while, impossibly, she keeps her braid from moving out of her control.

Finally, she deems her show concluded by standing straight, stiff as a bow, before falling gracefully into a low curtsy.

For a few seconds, nobody speaks, until Manik murmurs underneath his breath. "This."

June, who is sitting opposite to him, leans forward. "Excuse me?"

"_This_!" Both hands reach towards the woman, his hands cupped, as though he is praying. "This is what I mean! This is what my circus is to be! Unorthodox but beautiful. Sensual but elegant. This woman- you- oh my, absolutely lovely! Perfect! Come, come, join us… someone bring her a chair!"

A waitress obliges, and the contortionist, who is now smiling, seats herself between Ela and Asami.

Manik is still spewing praise and ideals to anyone who will hear. He pauses to address the contortionist, who has been silent until this point. "What is your name?"

"We have a confession to make," Ela cuts in.

Manik frowns. "A confession?"

"Yes. This was a surprise for you, Manik- from us." Mina's smile is now splitting her face open. "We'd like to introduce our sister."

"Your _sister_?"

"Yes." It is the contortionist who speaks now, extending a hand to the dumbfounded Manik. "My name is Ty Lee."

"Oh… well, that's even better! It's good to meet you." Manik shakes the offered hand, then turns to Ela and Mina. "Is this the sister you two are always talking about?"

"The same."

"Wonderful. Let me get you a drink… Yes, I see it now… you have the same hair, the same eyes… though yours are a bit lighter…."

After that point, Ty Lee unofficially becomes a member of the ragtag party- as well as Manik's pet. He fondly refers to her as "his vision", as everything he dreams of, of everything wants his circus to be.

* * *

_Year 330_

A week after Jin's impromptu visit, Zuko receives two letters at once.

The first is from his father, and though the second is a rolled up black scroll with silver pinpricks that give it the appearance of the night sky, it is the former that shocks him. He has not anticipated any further correspondence with his father- he has deemed their relationship ended when he'd walked out of Zuko's front door. In retrospect, he considers himself a fool for thinking so. There is still the challenge, of course; an impossibly strong, invisible thread that will always bind him to two people he wishes he could be rid of- his father, and the opponent.

_Katara._

Odd- he hasn't thought of that name in years.

Shaking his head, Zuko quickly reads the letter from his father. Then, his heart pounding, he unravels the black scroll- which is an invitation, he discovers, complete with a short note signed by a woman named _Sumi_. It corresponds perfectly with his father's words.

Abandoning his dinner, Zuko shrugs on his coat and steps out of the flat. Before he begins to work there, he thinks, he might as well become acquainted with Manik Manor.

* * *

Over the months following Ty Lee's introduction, the Circus Dinners become fairly regular. By the time two years have passed, they have become a religious practice.

They are held once a month, on a date Manik determines. Sumi sends out the glittering black invitational scrolls with precision. Though their team has grown quite a bit since the original meeting two years prior, not every employee, acrobat, or craftsman is privy to every Circus Dinner. In fact, the meetings hardly differ in appearance from the first one- with the exception of introductory meetings for new performers once they have cleared Manik's tests, to acquaint them with the rest of the team.

In the span of two years, there is a large number of these introductions; some of their subjects significant, some not. Tonight is one of those Circus Dinners meant to introduce a member who Manik deems quite significant indeed.

He arrives early, per instruction. Sumi, draped in an elegant gown that leaves her back bare, greets him.

"And how are you tonight?" she asks cordially.

"Fantastic," Zuko says, and because he doesn't mean it he hopes it doesn't sound rude "And you?"

"Some days are better than others," she replies. "Thank you for following the instructions and coming a little early, though I know it must make you even more nervous than you already are."

Zuko nods, wondering if she can see his anxiety on his face. "No problem."

"For what it's worth, you did fantastic in your audition last night."

They call it an audition? The word makes him feel as though he is trying out for an act, where he will don another name, another life. He supposes that, in a way, he is. "Thank you."

"No problem," Sumi smiles. "Manik was already sure you would exceed expectations. Your father's reputation precedes you."

The mention of his father puts a sour taste in Zuko's mouth.

"Let me take you to Manik, he's in the library…"

Manik, dressed in a cloak that resembled the deep crimson of his bottomless firewhiskey, shakes Zuko's hand with both of his own. Minutes later, another man joins them, and Manik suggests they all move to the dining room.

The newcomer is tall and broad-chested, with black hair and long sideburns. His eyes are what capture Zuko's attention. They are a deep amber, very much like his, but slightly darker.

He sees Zuko staring, but instead of being affronted, extends a hand. "I'm Lu Ten. Are you new?"

Zuko nods. "Is it that obvious?"

"It's practically a glaring sign on your forehead." Lu Ten's already wide grin stretches further, impossibly. Zuko doesn't think he's ever seen a smile quite that wide- or quite that genuine.

"I'm Zuko."

"Well, Zuko. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah." He does not, Zuko notes, comment on his scar. Neither does anyone else, as the evening progresses. "How long have you been… ah… a part of the circus?"

"A few months…. almost half a year. June found me. And Agni, am I glad she did." He pauses, his gaze growing distant. "Have you met her yet?"

"No," says Zuko.

"Hmm. Funny, June has found most of us… you'll like her, you'll see. You'll like everyone here."

Zuko doubts Lu Ten's optimism, but a part of him wishes desperately that this is so.

Slowly, but surely, guests begin to trickle into the lavish dining hall. Lu Ten introduces Zuko to the infamous June, who seems quite taken with him. There is a following flurry of faces, which Zuko desperately tries to keep up with; a Mechinist, a beautiful woman with the biggest green eyes he's ever seen, three brunettes who look almost identical, and a woman with a shockingly white mane of hair. Lu Ten introduces the last one as Yue, and they exchange a glance of such tenderness that Zuko looks away, feeling somehow intrusive.

When everyone takes their seats at the long table- Zuko listens to Lu Ten's fervent whispers, _I don't care where you've been, you've never tasted food like this, ever_- Manik surprises everyone by raising a hand to halt the waiters.

"We have a new performer with us tonight. Some of you may have already met him." Manik gestures to where Zuko sits. "When I announced that I have found us a firebender at the last meeting, the reaction was… instantaneous. And that is expected. For two years, we have slaved over every detail of this fantastic circus, making what was once a mere vision on scrolls a reality. And now- with this invaluable addition- we are closer than ever."

Manik lifts his glass. "I give you Zuko, our firebender!"

This is the part Zuko has been dreading- but it is the one thing Manik asked for, the one thing he's been sworn to do. And so, as polite applause ripples in the air, Zuko stands and extends a hand, palm upwards.

A flame bursts from it, dancing. The applause rises into a roar, interspersed with shrieks of delight and other exclamations. Manik reclines in his seat, grinning. This is everything he's ever wanted.

Zuko becomes the center of attention. He barely has time to dabble in the exquisite food- he notes that Lu Ten was quite correct- between the exclamations and compliments, the curious questions hurled his way. Asami- the woman with the green eyes- has an endless interrogation. The Mechinist has technical questions. The sisters- he notes that the two dressed similarly are Ela and Mina, and the distinct one is Ty Lee- express how taken aback they are. June dotes over Zuko, and Ty Lee jokes that June has found her pet, just as Manik found his. A woman in a glittering black gown and dark, narrow eyes says that she's never seen anyone bend before, and that she thought it'd be more dangerous. Zuko asks Lu Ten for her name; he says it is Mai. Later, when they are lounging in the study, June tells Lu Ten jokingly that Zuko has replaced him as the circus's Most Attractive Bachelor. He learns later that, among them, this is an actual title. Overall, the entirety of the night is slightly overwhelming. But Lu Ten's easygoing manner and ongoing company keep him afloat; set him at ease.

Throughout the evening, some detached thought pokes at Zuko. He tries to give it a face- not out of curiosity, but simply so that it would go away. It is when Ty Lee explodes with laughter at something Lu Ten said that Zuko finally places it. Though they couldn't look more different, they resemble a family.

* * *

The first time Katara is let out of the flat in Republic City, she wonders if it's possible for one to have forgotten the taste of air.

As she walks towards the park- _you are not really free, you are not really free_- she takes in sharp lungfuls of it, enjoying the way it stings her throat. She keeps an eye out for loiterers- but there is nobody, just as the man in white planned. She figures that she shouldn't be surprised; the world seems to fit into the palm of his hand.

Briefly, seconds before she reaches the destination point, Katara considers running away. The thought deflates as quickly as it came about. He'd know. He'd find her. He's planned this entire excursion, from the number of footsteps she'd take to the way she'd bend her wrist when returning the water to the bottle. He said he wouldn't be watching- the woman in the bushes knew him, he said, and he didn't want to risk the chance of discovery- but Katara doubts it.

This is not real freedom, she reminds herself. This is a parody of it.

Katara reaches the destination point. She drops the water. She takes a careful look around her, then bends it out of the soil. She pretends not to notice the tall woman who kneels in the bushes. _Everything is going according to plan._

The thought gives her pause. Anyone watching the solitary girl walk over the bridge would not have noticed anything amiss, but Katara's heart is beating a fierce tattoo against her chest. Everything _is_ going according to plan.

But whose plan is it?

* * *

"I've found her."

June can barely contain herself as she breezes in, shrugging off her fur wrap and letting it fall to the floor. In her obvious excitement, she doesn't notice. "I've found her. The waterbender."

"A waterbender?" Manik is up from his seat like an arrow shot from a bow.

"_The_ waterbender," June corrects, and it makes all the difference. "She's astounding, Manik! And right here in Republic City- right under our noses!"

"How'd you find her?"

"Never _mind_ that. Sumi!" The woman in question glances up from her papers. "Send a letter to her- she must audition! Tomorrow, tonight!"

"Sumi is _my_ assistant, dear."

June glowers at Manik, before crossing her arms over her chest and taking a step back. "Alright, then. You tell her."

"Sumi." Manik clears his throat. "Send a letter to this waterbender, inviting her here tomorrow afternoon. And, ah, send one to Zuko too."

"Why Zuko?"

"Because he is the only bender we have at the moment. It won't hurt to have him in the room." Manik snaps his fingers. "Quickly, now."

June leaves the manor as quickly as she entered it, and Sumi rises to her task.

* * *

The walls of the rooms are covered with heavy embroidered drapery in a dark green, and Katara wonders the intent is to make one feel as though they are drowning in some creature's belly.

She stands in a sort of auditorium, on a raised platform. Adorning her is a gown of indigo; easily the most beautiful thing she's ever owned. Three faces penetrate the darkness, expectant. The man with the thick gray hair seems excited. The tall woman seems triumphant, though Katara has yet to do anything. The woman with the green eyes, the one taking notes, seems genuinely curious. The broody man sits off on one side, glowering into his fist. She wonders if he knows that he's wearing that expression.

She tries not to look at his scar.

"Welcome, dear." It is the man with the gray hair speaking. "My name is Manik. These are Sumi, June, and Zuko. We are undergoing an incredible project. A circus."

Katara pretends to be ignorant. "A circus?"

"Indeed. It is to be uniquely different, an entirely new style of entertainment. Our focus is to be benders- waterbenders, firebenders, and the like."

Katara fixes the appropriate reaction onto her face; raised eyebrows and averted eyes, as though she is both surprised and suspicious. "How did you know?"

"I had a source. But it is no matter. My name carries merit in this city; it is its own defense system. No authorities will touch you, should you choose to participate. And you will be paid, of course."

At this, Katara's eyes return to Manik's face. The man in white told her explicitly to do this; money would be a solitary woman's motive, though it is certainly not Katara's.

"Are you… the least bit interested?"

Katara worries her lip. "You're certain the authorities won't hurt me?"

"Absolutely."

She pretends to consider. "Then yes. I'm interested."

Manik claps his hands together, clearly satisfied. "Wonderful. Sumi will move forward with the questions, if you don't mind."

Sumi does just that. "What's your name?"

She lifts her chin. "Katara."

Sumi takes note of this. June and Manik exchange a glance. And so it is only Katara who witnesses Zuko's head jerk up, his eyes widen.

But then Katara is being asked another question, and she must tear her attention away from him. "And your stage name?"

"I don't have one."

"Alright. How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Where have you performed?"

Katara squares her shoulders. "I've never performed professionally before."

She can sense that this answer is disappointing, but Sumi moves on without missing a beat. "Then you've studied with a master?"

Ah. This, Katara knows. "Yes. Two."

Sumi pauses, lifting her eyes to Katara. "_Two_ masters?"

"Yes. Master Pakku of the Northern Water Tribe, and Master Hama of the Southern Water Tribe."

"Both very noteworthy," June says to Manik, in a voice Katara supposes is intended as a whisper.

"You lived in both of the tribes, then?"

"No. Only the Southern Water Tribe. It's where I was born," Katara answers the interrogator. "I only came to Republic City recently."

"Let's see a demonstra- darling Sumi, where is the water basin?"

Sumi sets her notes down on a sofa and begins backing out of the room. "I told one of the maids to do it- I'll be right back with one, Manik."

Katara smiles. This interview is becoming putty in her hands. "That won't be necessary."

With that, Katara lifts one arm and does what she does best.

She is experienced enough to be able to watch her interviewers as she bends, gouging their reactions. Manik is watching her, mouth agape. June's eyes are large, drinking in every detail. Sumi has reclaimed her notebook, attempting to record what she sees. Her writing hand flies across the page, but eventually it stills and she is simply watching.

Zuko's expression is inscrutable.

By the time she is finished and has taken a bow, Manik's slack mouth has rearranged itself into a smile.

"Katara," says he. "Welcome to Le Cirque de Tourbillons."

* * *

_A/N: _I hope you liked it... the story is finally in motion! Please review- reviews make me ecstatic. :D


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